


the joy of small days

by leiascully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come on, Time Lord.  Everybody needs a day off now and again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the joy of small days

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Post-S6, timey-wimey  
> Concrit: Welcome  
> A/N: This began as a snippet that could fit in a comment box for the Cuddles & Rainy Day fest, and now it's a ridiculous schmoopfest involving scones and snuggling. I do it all for you, [**hihoplastic**](http://hihoplastic.livejournal.com/). Thanks also to [**dqbunny**](http://dqbunny.livejournal.com/) for the cheerleading.  
>  Disclaimer: _Doctor Who_ and all related characters are the property of Russell T. Davies, Stephen Moffat, and BBC. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

The Doctor wakes up. That alone is strange enough: he barely sleeps - dozes is more like it - but even more rarely is deep enough in dreamland that waking up is a jolt. Nevertheless, he wakes up like he's submerged in slumber and rising to the surface, and there's almost an audible pop as his eyes open. The first thing he sees is the hollow in the bed next to him. The next thing he sees is his former nemesis slash current intermittent companion slash mercenary slash helper or hindrance slash possible now-and/or-future wife (he isn't really certain how he feels about that timeline, or for that matter, how she feels about it, but his feelings on the subject are definitely a great deal warm-and-fuzzier than they were when he met River).

All of it's a bit too confusing for someone who's just woken up, especially when that someone doesn't usually sleep (and what he did to bring on this kind of exhaustion, he'll have to ask later, because he'll be buggered if he can remember). His head's all turned around, muzzy from sleep; the best he can place himself is "somewhere on Earth", but then again, he's got a good reason to be disoriented, and she's just sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Hello, sweetie," River says. Her hair is wild around her face and she's wearing a dressing gown. It has flowers printed on it. _Flowers._ River Song, wanted criminal, has a silky looking dressing gown with extremely innocuous flowers on it. This is exactly why he doesn't sleep much. He was always rubbish at mornings. But River's also holding a tea tray and miracle of miracles, it has tea on it.

" _Tea_ ," he breathes, reaching for the cup. The duvet slides off his shoulders as he sits up. He's wearing a soft old cotton t-shirt, extremely worn, with the name of River's university on it, and some extremely loose pajama bottoms.

"You were exhausted yesterday," River says, sitting down on the other edge of the bed with her own mug. "Big day sorting out history, rescuing the Ood again, poor souls. You needed a rest."

"I only like big days," he says, sulking into the steam from his tea. Oooh, lovely, tea. Worth saving this planet over and over for tea.

"Well, at least this once, you're going to live a small one," River says. "No saving worlds or averting disaster. Just a cup of tea and maybe a puzzle or some telly. It's too rainy to go out. Besides, the TARDIS agrees with me, and she won't let you in."

"Rainy?" He clambers out of the bed and whips open the curtains. Curtains! Feared by millions, and River's got curtains! It is indeed raining - at least that explains the strange muffled sound of the air. The TARDIS sits in the garden looking rather pleased with herself despite the damp. River's cottage is extremely cozy and extremely well-insulated. He hadn't even noticed the excess of humidity. He twitches the curtains closed again and glares at River as she crosses her arms and looks at him, fondly smug.

"You and I, we don't have small days. We aren't the right sort for that."

She raises an eyebrow. "Vacationers?"

"Human," he says.

"Hmm," she says. "There isn't a being alive who doesn't enjoy the occasional cozy lie-in."

"What about the hydrophobic planet?" he mutters. She does bring out his grumpy voice.

"Tea," she says. "A book. An afghan knitted by my own father. Two thousand years, he said, he needed something to do. I might even go mad and bake something later."

"Usually when you go mad, it involves combat gear," he says suspiciously. She does make a good cup of tea, though. He frowns into the steam rising from his mug. There's little in this universe that does better for his mood than the smell of good Earl Grey.

"Butter, flour, sugar, perhaps minor chemical reactions to induce leavening," she says. "Cross my single heart. Come on, Time Lord. Everyone needs a day off now and again. I'll let you help me stir if you're good. Come and have some toast first."

He feels strange, shuffling around her house in her shirt and the ridiculous pyjamas (why does she have pyjamas that fit him anyway? And a pair of slippers as well), but the bread is fresh-baked, and she has some very good butter and marmalade. He tucks into several pieces, suddenly ravenous.

"What did I do yesterday?" he asks. "Or what did we do?"

"Very nearly got yourself regenerated," she tells him. "The Mohztratta came back somehow and infested the Ood. They're really too kind for their own good. He was trying to soak up enough regeneration to free himself, and he'd nearly done it, too, but that's when we showed up, and of course you had to show off. You got quite a dose, my love."

"Ridiculous," he says, buttering another piece of toast. "I eat radiation for breakfast. Metaphorically speaking."

"The vortex was on the wrong wavelength for you, I expect," she says. "You certainly collapsed afterwards."

"Hmph," he says, sulking into the marmalade. "Are you certain you didn't just hit me over the head?"

"No one blames you," she says. "You've been a busy boy of late, hunting down the Silence, trying to figure out what the universe holds in store for you. It's no wonder you can't remember. How about a bath?"

Suddenly a bath sounds like the most wonderful thing in the universe. He feels grimy, like he's been living too long in his skin, and the idea soaking away the accumulation of less-than-stellar moments is bliss. River shows him to the bathroom - she's got an enormous old claw-footed tub that looks long enough for even him to be comfortable - and starts the water running. He's not sure what she adds to it, but the water froths into a thick layer of bubbles that smells amazing, sort of woodsy and relaxing. He strips out of his borrowed clothes and eases himself into the water.

It's amazing, the power of a bath. He lies there in the suds, ducking his head under once and scrubbing his fingers through his hair. He can feel his muscles unknotting and relaxing. He swishes his hands through the water, barely making ripples in the foam. He hums to himself, an old sailing song he picked up on some aquatic planet or another. There is, oddly enough, a rubber ducky on the window sill. He stretches out an arm for it and sails it through the bubbles.

The door clicks open and in comes River, a thick towel in her hand. The Doctor hurriedly scrapes heaps of bubbles up to cover his groin and his chest, a misplaced reflex, given that the foam is so thick anyway there's no way she could see through it. Besides, it's River: he's fairly certain that if she felt the urge, she'd strip off and climb right in with him. He blushes absurdly.

"Relax, sweetie," she says, smirking at him as she perches on the edge of the tub. "I'm not here to peep. Anyway, it isn't as if you've got anything I haven't seen before."

"Spoilers," he says, only a bit sulkily. If he's honest, the notion that he and River have been skin-to-skin intrigues him more and more lately.

"Surely you've figured it out," River tells him. "Anyway, you married me. If that doesn't entitle me to see you in the altogether, I don't know what does. But for now, I'm only here to bring you a towel. Take your time. There are clothes in the wardrobe when you're done." She drops a quick kiss on the top of his head and leaves, closing the door behind her.

He stays in the bath another half hour after that, thinking about timelines, the things that have or haven't happened. He remembers all of them: surely that makes them real. He remembers wrapping his hand in the end of his bow tie; he remembers his vows. The fact that he was inside a robot at the time in a timeline that no longer exists doesn't really seem to invalidate that choice, but then again, he's not sure where he and River are, in their relationship: she could be talking about another wedding he hasn't experienced yet. Either way, the important thing is that his bath water's no longer quite as warm as he likes it to be, so it's time to climb out. He toes open the drain and hauls himself out of the tub, drying off with the still-warm towel.

There's a razor and shaving cream on the sink, so he has a quick shave, rubbing a circle in the mist on the mirror first. He peers at his reflection afterwards, checking for any traces of shaving cream. "Come on, old son," he says to himself. "You've definitely had stranger experiences than this. You can do domestic if she can." River hasn't left him anything else, so he tiptoes down the hall in his bare feet with the towel around his waist.

The wardrobe is in the bedroom, and a lot of it is filled with River's clothes, but there's a significant amount of things that look like his. He finds a pair of corduroy trousers worn to comfortable softness, another t-shirt, and a cozy sweater - with his hair damp and himself finally awake, he's noticed a chill in the air. There are thick socks as well, and thank heavens, underwear. He pulls it all on and wanders back out to the living room. River's built a little fire in the grate and she smiles at him as she cleans one of her guns. She's changed while he was in the bath, and she looks quite fetching in jeans and a bulky sweater with a cowl neck that shows her collarbones. It's really quite irritating how pleased and comforted he feels at the sight of her.

"And there we are," he says, just a bit sarcastic. "A nice day in, polishing the arsenal."

"Respect the arsenal, my love," she tells him fondly. "It's saved you more than once."

He grumbles and slumps into an overstuffed chair. River's cottage is ridiculously comfortable, not what he would have expected at all. He pulls a book of fairy tales from the shelves and flips through it, gazing at the illustrations. The fire crackles as he finishes with the fairy tales and reaches for a history of the Aplans (by one Doctor River Song, naturally). After that, he reads _The Count of Monte Cristo_ and a textbook on archaeological techniques that makes him snort to himself and a frankly excellent collection of essays on the deaths of various American presidents. He's absorbed in _Lord of the Rings_ when River finally looks up from the various bits of her weaponry.

"A bite to eat?" she asks, and his stomach growls loudly.

"Go on then," he tells her, vaguely embarrassed, and she reassembles the guns with a speed and competence that ought to frighten him but instead just makes him oddly proud and fond.

There are thick sandwiches for lunch, and big mugs of the soup that's been simmering on the back of the stove since breakfast, and cut-up apples and pears. Fortunately, his mouth has adjusted to enjoy apples again, and he eats up all of it. He clears away the plates after lunch and does the washing up - it seems the least he can do - while River assembles the ingredients for scones.

"Now then," she says with a twinkle in her eye as she ties on an apron. "Have you been good?"

"Good enough," he says.

She gives him a wooden spoon and an apron of his own and only laughs a little when he ends up covered in flour. He tells her he hates puzzles, but she lets him pick out the edge pieces as they wait for the scones to bake. She makes more tea. They sit at opposite ends of the sofa with their feet together under Rory's ancient afghan. She reads out bits of poetry to him, and snippets from her thesis, and more fairy tales with sorcerers that are really about him. He takes notes in his diary, which he found on the dresser in the bedroom. He relishes the comfort of the swirls and curves of Gallifreyan, not that he'd tell her he's enjoying anything about this day, but she looks up and smiles at him, and blast her, she knows anyway. He smiles back.

"A small day," she says, "extraordinary only in its ordinariness, and for going all in the right order for once."

"I've had worse," he says, and leaves it at that, but he doesn't leave. The rain patters at the windowsill and he takes another scone and twiddles his toes under the blanket.

 _Once upon a time,_ he writes in his diary, _there was the Doctor and River._ He leaves it at that; he not sure what else there is to say, too many words and none of them quite the right ones. He can't even explain to himself this pleased warmth spreading through him as River rubs her foot absently against his, frowning slightly at her notes. She's obviously farther along in their time than he is and he wishes rather desperately that they could catch up to each other and be at the right points for once. He doesn't want to think about the fact that she might be nearing the end of her timeline. In his, they're still barely reconciled from the dilemmas created by rewriting fixed points, the two of them just approaching intimacy. He wants desperately to run from her and the promise in her smile and just as desperately to hold her in his arms until the universe dissolves around them. He's been alone too long; he doesn't know how to settle down. He hasn't been good at relationships in a very long time, and he hasn't been good at being married a great deal longer than that, not with his restless heart and his habit of fleeing unpleasant situations. She makes it easy, though, just sweeping him up into her life without letting him ask questions.

"River," he starts.

"I know," she says, still writing out notes. "Nothing's ever that simple, sweetie. We've done the lake, yes? Have we done Asgard? Jim the Fish?"

"No," he says. "The last time I saw you was on the shore of Lake Silencio. Thank you for that, by the way, and for not stopping time for the sake of me again."

"I don't always follow the Doctor's orders," she says with a smile, "but on that occasion, it seemed appropriate. You don't know what to make of me, do you?"

"Will I ever?" he asks wistfully.

She laughs. "Probably not. But it will get easier."

"Hah," he says.

"I know," she says, "Rule One. But I'm not lying about this. I wouldn't. This matters."

"If you say so," he tells her, but he rubs his foot tentatively against hers under the afghan.

They have more of the lunchtime soup for dinner and then watch a movie. River lets him pick, so it's _Casablanca_ , because it's just so terribly quotable, and her television only does two dimensions anyway. He sits down on the couch and lays his arm along the back of it, and River puts the movie on and settles down beside him, curling into his side and tucking her feet up under herself. She reaches for his arm and pulls it down around her shoulders.

"You might as well get used to it sometime," she says, laying her head on his shoulder, but he isn't complaining. Instead, he reaches across his lap and takes her other hand, lacing his fingers through hers and resting their clasped hands on his thigh. It's absolutely lovely, in point of fact, to be half of this whole. Much nicer than eloping with Elizabeth I, certainly, and nicer than Marilyn Monroe. It's the sort of thing he never had time for with Rose, and the sort of thing he didn't do with Martha or Donna, for one reason or the other. But it feels good with River. It feels right. Her hair tickles his ear, but she's warm and just the right shape to fit against him, and when he stops overthinking every single thing, he feels happy. He lets himself relax into the cushions and into her and he enjoys the movie and the evening. Rain continues its soporific patter against the window glass, and he's glad of the fire now, because even with River and the afghan, he can feel the chill in the air.

The movie spins out its story, all in the right order and yet still the wrong one: it's one of the few things he's enjoyed watching more than once for that very reason. He's not following it as closely as usual because he's distracted by River, even though she's not doing anything more than breathing next to him. It's him who starts rubbing his thumb gently over her knuckles. It's him who uses the hand that's over her shoulders to smooth down her hair and caress her cheek on the way. It's him who, as the movie ends, tips her chin up very gently and kisses her.

She smiles up at him, dreamy and drowsy. "Let's go to bed, sweetie."

He swallows hard. "Together?" He feels foolish after he says it; obviously he woke up in her bed this morning.

She laughs quietly and unfolds herself, standing up and offering him her hand. "I promise not to put any moves on you that you can't handle."

He lets her have the bathroom first and changes quickly back into the pyjamas from earlier while she's washing her face and completing her toilette. She emerges from the bathroom and beams sleepily. He grins back, only a little bit nervous. They've both been doing a lot of smiling today. To distract himself, he goes in to clean his teeth and give himself a little pep talk in the mirror. He has a toothbrush in her bathroom. This is startling and not startling, after the day he's had. He rinses and spits and gazes at himself.

"Come on, old man," he says. "Get in there and go to bed with your wife."

River's in the bed wearing a camisole and scribbling away in her diary when he comes back out. He turns out the bathroom light and wanders over to the bed, climbing in purposefully and pulling the covers over himself. She favors him with a brief look and then keeps writing in her diary. He picks up a book from the night table and reads it - quite an entertaining novel, really, and it keeps him from fidgeting too awfully much. After approximately a million years (or about five minutes in actual time), River snaps her diary shut and turns to him.

"Shall I turn out the light?"

"Please," he says.

The difficulty has never been that he doesn't love her. He does, even more now when she is being so gentle with him. He would stop time to save her, he thinks, but there is always the Library in the back of his mind. He can't help wanting to save himself the heartbreak, but then, he owes her that joy. Besides which, he's so used to people dying or leaving him that he hasn't had to commit to anyone the way he's pledged himself to River, and she won't take a one-hearted effort. He's got to give her both his hearts, all his love, and he's got to cherish her and let her be free all at once.

It's easier with the lights out, somehow. He can't see her bright eyes or her knowing smile or the bits and bobs of his things scattered around her room. He eases deeper under the covers and reaches out for her, pulling her close. She snuggles up against him, her forehead tucked against his chin and her toes cool against his shins. He strokes her back cautiously. Her skin is warm and smooth under the silky fabric.

"Penny for your thoughts, my love," she says into the hollow of his throat.

"I don't really sleep much," he tells her and she chuckles.

"Sweetie, I know that." She cuddles closer, fitting her body against his. "I may only be Time Lady-ish, but I do understand a bit of how these things work. I just thought it would be nicer in here. Besides, you're still recovering. You might find you're tired after all."

"I might," he says. "But then again, I might not. I suppose there are always more movies." He pauses. "Have I told you that you really smell very good?"

"Thank you, sweetie," she says, sounding amused in the dark.

"It's true," he insists. "I'm not sure what sort of shampoo or perfume that is, but you should carry on using it. Maybe I should use it as well. Then it would be like you were always with me. Except for the bit where I don't carry a gun, which is a bit useless when it comes to some of the situations I find myself in, as you know."

"Doctor," she says tenderly.

"Yes," he says, "quite right, shut up, Doctor." He sighs. "It's been a while since I took any kind of actual vacation. Even longer since I did anything like this."

"Well, in my recent past, you're very good at it," she reassures him.

He sighs again and rolls onto his back, carefully bringing him with her. She resituates herself on his chest, propping herself carefully up on her elbows to gaze down at him. Even in the dim rainy light of the room, he can see the fondness in her expression.

"I'm sorry I make this so difficult," he tells her, stroking her hair away from her face.

"Life with you could never be anything else," she says. "It's worth it every minute."

"I wish we could life in the right direction," he says. "Marriage isn't easy to start with and even less so when we're constantly at right angles to each other in our timelines."

"That'll be better soon too," she says. "I don't think that's too much of a spoiler."

"River," he says.

"Yes, Doctor?" Her voice is warm and expectant.

"I'm glad you love me more than anyone else in the universe does," he says, slightly at a loss for words. "I haven't always given you all you deserved."

"Oh, sweetie, that's only life," she tells him.

"I love you," he says. "Quite a lot. I mean, it very nearly might be a universe's worth. But it terrifies me."

"I know," she says. "But better love than fear."

"It takes so much _time_ ," he complains.

"And who has more of that than we do?" she asks, amused at him again. "Besides, you needn't worry about that tonight. I'm certainly not going anywhere, and neither are you."

"What I meant to say was that I'm glad that I married you," he says after a moment. "And I'll do it again in any timeline you like."

"My sentimental husband," she says, stroking his chest and laying her head down on his shoulder. His hearts beat just a bit faster to have her so close. "Bless the day I met you."

"You tried to kill me," he points out, wrapping his arms more firmly around her.

"Foreplay," she says dismissively. "You can't tell me you didn't enjoy the bits where you weren't dying."

"Well," he says, "yes, all right."

"And then I saved you," she reminds him. "With a kiss. Quite romantic, really."

"My very own fairy tale," he says. "And this time, you were the good wizard."

"Oh, love," she says, "all our life together is a fairy tale. Only our happily-ever-after comes in the middle instead of at the end."

He tightens his arms around her. "River Song, I could bloody kiss you right now."

"I think you're just old enough for that," she says thoughtfully, and he turns his head and finds her lips with his. It's a slow, lazy, accustomed-to-each-other sort of kiss, the kind he could spend the rest of his life on. She cups his cheek with her hand and kisses him as if they've got all the time they'll never need, as if there'll never be a Library or a lakefront, as if there'll never be pain or suffering or separate ways. He believes her when she kisses him like that. He'll let her tell their story, River with her clever way with words. River who always finds him, no matter where or when. River who won't let go. River who never runs when she's afraid.

He holds her close, treasuring the moment. The rain patters down outside but they're home here together, he and River and the TARDIS standing guard in the garden. After all of his running, he's found somewhere to rest, in the arms of his incorrigible, indefatigable, unpredictable, and irreplaceable wife. The wide universe may lie just outside their door, but it can wait: there will be other days, big days, but for now, he's discovered the joy of small days.

He kisses River again and they dream their waking dream of peace together, wrapped up in her blankets and the warmth of their love, and it's enough, better than enough, and there isn't anywhere he'd rather be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Street, That Man, This Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/840429) by [leiascully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully)




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